


The Problem of the Dashing Doctor

by SevenPercentCatherine



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes is stroppy and petty, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:09:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22395310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevenPercentCatherine/pseuds/SevenPercentCatherine
Summary: Holmes is brooding. Watson comes home frustrated over an unsuccessful errand. Emotions ensue.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 85





	The Problem of the Dashing Doctor

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Проблема бравого доктора](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23751625) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



I have been brooding. 

I shouldn’t, I know. But it’s hopeless to trying to keep it at bay sometimes. There is ennui and then there is misery, and one is distinctly more attractive than the other. And, although hardly self-edifying, feeling sorry for one’s self is the more appealing choice. And, in speaking of the attractive, he’s home. Just in time to witness my singularly spectacular moping. Splendid. 

I can tell three things straight away when he enters the room. One, the rain from this morning is still persisting outside. Two, his errand was unsuccessful. Three, he’s annoyed with me. I should try to be cheerful. He at least deserves that much. I gather up my face in my best smile and prepare to greet him warmly. He beats me to it. With the difference being that his greeting lacks a smile or warmth. 

“Holmes.” Terse. Whatever frustrated him before is being compounded by my sloth. 

“Watson.” I try for a cordial two syllables, infused with cautionary warmth.

His rain-slick coat and hat discarded; he sits heavily down in on of the chairs by the fire without deigning to respond. Maybe if I make an overture his mood will improve. I rise, fish my cigarette case out of the pocket of my dressing gown, and go to stand by his chair. 

“Cigarette?” I ask holding out the case. A Christmas present, from him, last year.

“No.” Short. I should have more patience with him. He’s been out in the rain all day. Unfortunately for my eternal solitude; however, I do not. 

“I don’t suppose you want to address what has you in such a mood?” I ask, a little more acidly than I intended, as I turn away to sit in my own chair. 

It’s hardly my fault if I’m frustrated. After spending the better part of the day ruminating on the inevitability of it all, it’s exceedingly difficult not to be. All afternoon I watched the rain batter the windows and could think of nothing else. He’s been a widower for almost two years now. He will soon find another suitable wife, and leave me here alone. In all probability permanently this time. It isn’t as though I deserve anything else. It isn’t as though I can just tell him. Heaven knows what he would think, what he would say. Watson sighs loudly from his chair and looks to me. 

“I was looking for something.”

“What was it?”

“Something terribly important. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh?” I meant that to sound much less titchy than it did. Perhaps he won’t notice that it came out illustratively petty.

“Yes.” He noticed. 

I have no desire to upset him. Putting the cigarette case back in my pocket, I take a deep breath and regard him. He looks uncharacteristically agitated. His cheeks are red from more than the weather outside, and he keeps readjusting the positioning of his legs. He is more than frustrated, nervous perhaps.

“Well then, since I wouldn’t understand, perhaps you will do me the favour of enlightening me?” I try to say it as non-judgmentally as possible.

He pauses. He’s unsure, maybe embarrassed. I can see it in his face. 

“My good fellow, what is it?” I surprise myself with the degree of softness in my voice. 

He is evidently surprised as well, for he takes a moment to compose himself before he responds. 

“It isn’t within . . . your. . .area of expertise.” 

He’s met a woman. I swallow, my throat suddenly tight. He’s still looking at me when I regard him again. 

“Oh?” Is all I manage.

“It’s . . . it’s. . .” I remain silent. Pinned to the spot, staring at him. I want to will the words not to come out of his mouth. 

“I was looking for a ring.” He blurts out, frustrated again, raising his hands. 

He has met a woman, then. He has really met a woman. I will really be alone again so soon.

“Holmes?” I must look terribly taken aback because I can see the expression on his face change from frustration to concern. 

“Holmes? Are you quite well?”

“Yes.” I manage at last. 

“I, I, um. . . “I clear my throat and try again. 

“I am happy for you, then, my dear fellow.” Perhaps he won’t notice that my voice broke on the syllables in happy.

“Holmes?” He noticed. 

Rising from his chair, he stands in front of me. All I have ever wanted and all I can never have. 

“You must not be well.” He puts a hand to my forehead, checking for a fever.

“Have you eaten today?”

No.   
“Perhaps not.”

“You haven’t then.”

He goes over to ring the bell. I cannot fathom how I can continue on now. 

“It’s alright.” I interject, standing before he can pull the cord.

“I think I will just retire. Perhaps I do not feel so well after all.”

He doesn’t quite believe me, but he can’t think of an argument. I am the worst of friends. 

“Tomorrow,” I start apologetically, “tomorrow we must open a good bottle of wine – to celebrate. A toast to your happy future. For, I am sure that you may be assured of a favourable response.”

“You . . . should eat something.” 

It really is a pity he didn’t pay attention to my little speech, as my throat burns dry from forcing out the words. 

“I really am quite alright, my dear Watson. I suspect I just need to rest is all.” I offer a tight smile.

“You are not.” 

He’s too brilliant for his own good. He is far too many things for his own good. He is far too many things for me. 

“I- “He starts again after I give no response. 

“Do you not want to know who the ring will be for?” He asks suddenly, surprising both of us. 

I can only regard him with a mixture of agony and affection. I want to say no. A good friend, a better man, would say yes. I say nothing.  
He closes his eyes – nervousness, and again the embarrassment from before. Or is it trepidation? What could he possibly have to be nervous about? He takes a deep breath and looks me in the eyes with an unreadable expression. 

“You. The ring – it will be for you.”

I am struck. 

“What?” I am earnestly surprised he hears me for how softly I speak it. 

“I-I got the ring for you.” He pauses here to allow me to say something. I continue on in silence.

“I got the ring for you. To give to you. To ask you if I could stay here – for now and always – with you.”

I am stunned. I cannot form a reply. He continues valiantly on, ever the soldier. 

“I know - I know we’d never be able to do anything publicly. But I had hoped – hoped that perhaps you felt as I do. That perhaps this – what we have- is as special to you as it is to me. And that you would like to stay with me as well.”

I have to say something. I have to reply. 

“My dear Watson- “

He jumps immediately to the wrong conclusion from my response. 

“If that’s not how you feel, I understand. I shan’t speak of it again.” 

He looks heartbroken. He looks heartbroken over me. The action comes to me before any thought. I am halfway across the carpet before I come to the realization that I am moving. I am in standing in front of him, eye to eye, when my mind catches up to my body. He looks at me with the same mixture of affection and agony as I felt before. I can recognize the expression now. 

“My dear fellow.” I smile. 

There is more that must be communicated here. More than what can be said. I bring a hand up and rest it on one of his cheeks, leaning forward and gently placing a kiss on the other. 

“Holmes?”

“Yes?”

“What about all your talk of romance being a distraction? About how your mind is a machine?” 

How could he be so incredulous?

“My dear Watson,” I can barely respond.

“I would rather be human. I would rather be with you.”


End file.
